


secondhand high

by nightwideopen



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Episode: s02e01 The Marshal, First Kiss, Grey-Asexual Din Djarin, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Touch-Starved, space stoner Cobb Vanth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:07:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29703102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: Over the fire at the Tusken camp, Din watches the marshal pull a tin of hand rolled cigarras out of his pack.“Where do you get the tobacco from to roll it yourself around here?”“It’s not tobacco,” Cobb says. Then he winks.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 25
Kudos: 92





	secondhand high

Over the fire at the Tusken camp, Din watches the marshal pull a tin of hand rolled cigarras out of his pack. 

He doesn't think anything of it as Cobb lights one up and brings it to his lips; he's probably watched hundreds of people smoke over his lifetime. Din likes to watch people, study them, learn them even if he'll never really get to know them. And he's never, not once cared about anyone smoking in his presence, tobacco or otherwise. Besides his helmet doing a more than satisfactory job of keeping most gases and smells out of his nose, he's never really cared. It's like watching someone take a drink of water or scratch an itch. 

But here, in the low light of the dying fire, Din’s turned off his HUD and is just watching Cobb through the dim filter of his visor. And as Cobb leans back and relaxes as much as he can on the makeshift stool of a chair that he's been sitting in since they arrived, Din finds himself transfixed on the easy way Cobb inhales, tips his head back, closes his eyes and lets his lips part ever so slightly to blow the smoke back up towards the sky. He's illuminated orange and gold — as far as Din can tell — the flickering firelight dancing shadows across the bridge of his nose and his hair. 

It's mesmerizing. 

Cobb catches him staring, and Din feels himself flush behind his visor. He forces his gaze back to the fire, but it's not nearly as interesting.

“Mando.”

Din’s head turns back whipcord-quick, which is to say embarrassingly fast. His neck creaks with it. He's too old to be having crushes like this, probably. Instantaneous crushes that make him act stupid. He's known this man for a _day._

But Cobb's voice is like a siren call, his tone dripping innuendo and clearly teasing at having caught Din. He drags out the vowels as if they're floating away with the smoke from his cigarra. 

“Yeah?”

Cobb's smirking at him. “What're you thinking about over there? And don't say nothin’ ‘cause I can practically hear those cogs churning away in there.”

Din thinks he could lie, make something up about the kid or about their plan for tomorrow. There are about a million things he could say, but they all pale in comparison to the truth. He doesn't think he could make it through half a sentence without stuttering, hopelessly distracted by Cobb's mouth and his fingers wrapped around the cigarra. Din thought he had more discipline than this, more self control. But apparently all it takes to undo him is a smart-mouthed marshal and a little bit of smoking.

So Din skirts around the truth, but stays close enough within the realm of his distraction to make it the focus of the conversation.

“Where do you get the tobacco from to roll it yourself around here?”

Cobb smirks slowly, just a sly play of his lips around the tip of his cigarra. Maybe staying on topic was a bad idea. If he could see Din’s eyes, transfixed on his mouth as they are, well… Din thinks the intensity of it might be enough to make even a cocksure man like the marshal just a little bit self conscious. 

“It’s not tobacco,” Cobb says. Then he winks. 

Din barely remembers what they were talking about. But it hits him all at once as he tears his eyes away from Cobb's mouth for just a moment. 

_Oh_ , Din thinks. “Oh.”

He doesn't know what else to say. It's even less odd, the smoking of any type of spice. It's probably more common on the Outer Rim than tobacco itself, but he's so kriffing _distracted_ that he's at a loss for words. A loss for thought.

Until Cobb extends the cigarra to him. “You wanna—?”

At least that's an easy question with an easy answer. 

“Oh, no thanks.” He gestures vaguely to his helmet. “Can’t take this off.”

Cobb shrugs, puts the cigarra back between his teeth. 

“Ever?” he asks. 

Din shakes his head patiently, gently reminding himself that this is a man who didn't know that Mandalorian armor isn't something that _finders keepers_ applies to. Surely he's not being condescending, just ignorant. 

“Part of the Mandalorian code. We don't show our faces. That's how I knew—”

“—knew I wasn't really Mandalorian.” He hums. “Alright.”

And he doesn't push, doesn't even seem to think twice about it and accepts Din's response at face value. It's a breath of fresh air, so to speak, and the defensive front that Din was about to put up crumbles preemptively. 

“Oh, well. If you still want to though, I promise I won't look.”

“Well, I mean. I’ve never actually—”

“C’mon, you're gonna tell me you've never tried to hot box that thing?” Cobb tilts his head back on an exhale, grinning sideways. “Because I've done it in mine – well, not mine, I guess I should get used to that – but _man_. And— well, shit! Yours has a latch and everything. That's _air tight_.”

His helmet isn't actually air tight, but he doesn't feel intent on sabotaging Cobb’s daydream about using his armor and its features for… extracurricular purposes.

And it's not that Din’s never thought about it. He's just never really… gotten the chance.

But that's not entirely true, is it?

Over the years he must've sat in dozens of smoke-hazy cantinas, probably elicited secondhand highs just from being there. He's had bounties whose pockets he'd emptied and come up with spice enough to take but not enough to sell that it would be worth the effort. He's had nights alone with prospective lovers who’ve tried to nudge up his helmet _just enough_ —

Maybe he's just been a bit of a stickler. Maybe he's been so engrossed in his hunter-prey lifestyle that he never got the chance to do _this_. Something reckless—

Okay, something reckless that _isn't_ also life-threatening. 

But perhaps growing up into war, being raised on a razor’s edge, being thrusted into adulthood, near-exile, and a life that demands he be in constant possession of all faculties isn't conducive of nights next to a bonfire, getting high with a few friends and just _existing_. 

Din often forgets that even in these times, these godawful post war times where everything is somewhere in between bad and worse that his life has never been anywhere resembling _normal_. Neither has Cobb’s, that much he's certain of. Perhaps they both deserve some time to kick off their sand-filled boots and just shoot the shit until they hurl themselves into the mouth of a dragon tomorrow. Because who knows if they'll even survive. The only thing that's promised is this moment, right here. 

Cobb’s voice one-twos him out of his thoughts.

“Hey, I can hear those cogs malfunctioning, now. Smoke coming out of your ears and all. Don't feel bad you've never done it, it's not for everyone. It's just that there's not much else to do on this sandbox in the quiet times and sometimes I think that if I didn't get a little high every once in a while I'd walk straight into the desert and never come back.”

Din considers that. “That makes sense,” he offers. “I suppose I just haven't been bored in a very long time.”

He purposely turns his whole head towards Cobb, looking him dead on as he flicks the last of the cigarra into the fire. His head tilts with it, and he almost wishes he'd taken up Cobb's offer.

Maybe next time he gets the chance, he’ll park himself in deep space for a few hours and see what all the fuss is about.

Almost as if Cobb could read his thoughts, “I've got more, y’know. Wouldn't mind sharing with a friend. 'specially for a first time.” He waggles his eyebrows playfully. “First times are somethin’ special indeed.”

And here Din is again at a crossroads, with a choice.

“I—” He hesitation almost claims him, but he pushes through, tries to be brave in the face of something so trivial, yet so unfamiliar. “Yeah. Okay. I just… don't know how.”

Cobb shrugs, once again taking Din and his many mysteries in stride. “I could shotgun ya. If you wanted.” He draws an ‘X’ on the armor, over his heart. “Cross my heart I won't look.” He tilts his head towards the place where his tent is pitched in the sand. 

Din looks back to his own tent where the Child is sound asleep. He could easily retreat, say the kid needs looking after, that he's tired and needs to rest. But he has no idea what shotgunning means and he's so kriffing curious because the way Cobb says it makes it sound _salacious_. 

“Alright.”

Cobb's answering grin is enough to make Din feel as though he made the right choice. 

At best, Din has a tenuous grasp on how to act around another person in such close quarters. The tent is barely big enough to fit them both, the two of them hunching over to get through the flap and sitting even still with their shoulders slumped as their heads brush the sloping roof of it. He stays absolutely still once he's settled, afraid that he's going to bump into Cobb if he so much as breathes. He's unsure if he's scared that he's going to spook Cobb out of his offer or that he's going to spook himself out of having said yes. 

“Cozy,” Din jokes. He's not sure if the tone carries over, is momentarily worried by the quirk of Cobb's eyebrow. 

But then he laughs. “Could be worse, right?” And Din has to physically stop himself from sighing in relief. 

There's an oil lamp burning in the corner of the tent that's most definitely a fire hazard if Din ever saw one. But the light of it plays on Cobb's face the same way the firelight did so he's not about to complain. 

Without much more preamble, Cobb rustles back into his pack to retrieve the tin once more. He pulls out a cigarra, sticks the tip of it into the flame from the lamp, and takes the first drag of it. He looks up at Din, grinning. 

Din feels entirely out of his depth here. 

“You want me to put the light out?”

“Huh?”

“So you can take it off. It'll be dark enough, I think.”

Din is vaguely aware of the fact that in order to put something in his mouth, his helmet has to come off, but he's once again distracted by the tendrils of smoke coming out of both Cobb's lips and his nose. Cobb was right, he _is_ malfunctioning. Din wants to kiss him, he realizes. _So badly_. 

Cobb must mistake his silence for hesitation — when it's really just hopeless lusting for something he wasn't even sure he'd ever want — and shuffles his position a bit, making their knees knock and their foreheads nearly brush in the small space. He sits back on his heels and holds the cigarra out towards Din. 

“Here, hold this for me a sec. Just hold it.”

Din does, takes the cigarra gently from between Cobb's fingers and holds it in his own. He wants to put it in his mouth, put his lips where Cobb's just were but– But Cobb told him to hold on. So he waits. 

And he watches. 

Watches as Cobb unwinds his scarf from around his own neck and swiftly ties it over his eyes.

Then he just sits there, like he's waiting for Din to do something. 

Din does. Do something, that is. He keeps a careful watch on Cobb as he moves ever so slowly, looking for any reaction as he takes one of Cobb's hands where it's resting on his thigh and slots the cigarra back between his fingers. But he doesn't react until Din is actually touching him, and he turns his palm up to accept the cigarra back. And then… then Din wishes he didn't have his gloves on. He wishes he didn't have all of these self imposed barriers between him and what he wants. Something attainable and sitting right in front of him that he could reach out for if he wasn't locked away like a fairytale maiden in a tower. It's a borderline blasphemous thought that shocks his system just as thoroughly as the snick of the latch on his helmet as he begins to take it off without a second thought. 

Between one blink and the dimming effect of his visor being gone, Cobb becomes painted golden in the lamp light like nothing Din could've ever conjured in his mind's eye. He's actually, blessedly, properly seeing him and he just about gasps at the sight. As an afterthought, he tears of his gloves and places them on top of his helmet. 

Cobb, who has no doubt heard the click of the latch and the commotion of all his hasty movement, raises his eyebrows up from behind the scarf. 

“Ready?”

Din nods, then remembers himself and finds his voice. 

“Yes.”

“Okay, just relax. Breathe in when I breathe out, ‘kay?”

“Okay.”

Din doesn't know what's about to happen until it's happening, when Cobb takes a great big drag of his cigarra and blindly reaches out until he finds Din’s face. He pulls Din in with both hands, presses his mouth to Din’s, and exhales the smoke right into Din’s shocked-open own. He barely remembers to breathe in, or breathe at all for that matter. But luckily his stunned gasp does it for him, drawing the smoke into his lungs in such a way that itches almost immediately. He tries to muscle through it as long as he can but he eventually succumbs to the urge to cough and smoke drifts out of him in a much less languid way than it did for Cobb. But he doesn't really care, is more focused on the way his lips are nearly electric where Cobb all but kissed him.

Cobb sits back on his ass, smirking. “What I wouldn't give to see the look on your face.” A laugh bubbles out of him so suddenly that it seems involuntary. “Can't believe you're letting little old me be your corruptive influence.”

“Whatever picture of innocence you have of me in your head,” Din grates out while trying to suppress another cough, “Get rid of it.”

“Oh ho _ho_ , I see! You trying to tell me you're a bad boy, Mando?”

His voice is laced with innuendo once more and Din can't tell if it's because he's high or if he's actually flirting. He can't see the flush on Din's cheeks or the way Din presses his knuckles gently against his lips because all he's thinking about are his face and lips and lungs that are burning in all the places Cobb touched him. 

“I'm trying to tell you that I—”

Kriffing hell, what _is_ he trying to say? Has the spice gone to his head already? Surely there's a reasonable distinction between his thoughts being slightly muddled by a high and the overwhelming befuddlement he currently feels at having felt Cobb's lips on his for the first time. 

Feeling _anyone's_ lips on his for the first time.

But to be fair, he's always been a man of little words. So he does what he's best at these days and pockets his inclination towards violence and reaches back across the space between them—

“Tell me what?”

Frustration bubbles up and spills over before Din can even think to rein it in; and he's grabbing Cobb's face in a crude mirror of the way Cobb held him just before, pressing their mouths together with an urgency and a hunger that Din didn't think he was capable of.

But then, tonight's full of surprises, isn't it?

It doesn't take Cobb long to catch on that Din has no idea what he's doing. Instinct only takes him so far before he's being grasped in a death grip on his wrists that makes his confidence stutter. But Cobb doesn't tear away, just holds on and pushes back and properly _kisses_ him this time. 

And holy mother of Maker it’s a _revelation._

Any lingering reservation that Din might've had at his inexperience gets lost in his own enthusiasm and the fact that Cobb takes it in stride and gives it right back. As Din releases his hold on Cobb’s face to muss up his hair and plant a palm flat on his chest, on his armor, Cobb’s own hands loosen up on Din's wrists, skittering up his arms over his vambraces and his pauldrons until they're touching the skin of his neck.

And Cobb's fingers are _cold_. Or at least, that's the excuse Din tells himself as to why he gasps and pulls back. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Cobb says quickly, breathlessly, trying to put his hands anywhere else. 

But Din stops him, puts his hands back and does his best to get used to the feeling of skin on his. It's almost too much, just this side of overwhelming but it's _good_. It's better than good. 

“It's okay.”

Din keeps his hold on Cobb's head, staying carefully still so that he doesn't give the impression that he wants to _stop_. 

“Been a while?”

“Something like that.”

Cobb hums. “C'mere.”

He uses the leverage of Din’s own stubborn grip to slide himself forwards under Din’s body and backwards until he's all but lying on the ground. He pulls Din down with him and Din feels hopelessly clunky, looming over Cobb's slim frame with all of their beskar between them _and_ his cape that falls around them, making it feel like they're even closer than they are. Din puts one hand in the ground to steady himself, keeps his other in Cobb's surprisingly soft hair. But when he leans in, desperate to feel their mouths together again, he over balances just slightly, and the answering _ping_ of their armor together makes Din’s heart clench at the thought of being _caught_. 

But Cobb just laughs, pulling Din down by his cuirass and kissing him. Or attempting to. But if he's missed his mark by kissing the corner of Din’s mouth he doesn't show it. He just keeps going, leaving Din in a mad scramble to try and watch him out of the corner of his eye as Cobb kisses his cheek, then his chin, then the hinge of his jaw until he's reached Din’s neck and has latched onto it with a muffled sound that makes Din give up the ghost on holding all of his weight. He lets himself slip, let's the adrenaline rush from the shock turn into a thrill instead of fear. 

And he lets Cobb have at his neck, sucking bruises that he'll cover up with his cowl before he puts his back helmet on. They're just for him, surely Cobb knows that. And at that thought, something soft breaks through the urgency that makes Din pull back, enough so that he can look at Cobb as much as he can with half the man's face covered. 

He could easily take it off, he could easily take _everything_ off and—

“Hey,” Cobb says smugly. 

“Hey yourself.”

And Din feels just a little bit out of his mind. 

“Tell me what you're thinking.”

“I'm having a hard time figuring that out myself.”

“Well…” Cobb slowly pushes Din’s arm away so that he's finally resting his full weight on him. None of this is comfortable, with their armor in the way, and even if the sand gives way under the tent just a little, it has to be hell on Cobb’s back. Din isn't exactly _dainty._ “Just tell me anything then.”

He kisses Din once, twice, square on the mouth and proving he knew exactly what he was doing earlier. 

“You smoked a bit more than I did.”

Cobb throws his head back and laughs. “Shit. Wait— _shit_ ,” he keeps laughing, now fumbling around the floor of the tent blindly. “Where'd it go!?”

Din looks around and spots the cigarra quickly, picking it up and relighting it with the lamp. “I got it.” Then he figures, fuck it, and puts it to his own lips to take a drag. It tastes so bad, and it makes his lungs itch again. He can't help but cough, laughing through it. “Ah, that's terrible.”

“Well then don't waste it!”

“Oh, hush up.” Din takes another drag, holding it in his mouth and pressing his lips to Cobb’s until he gets the hint and opens up, inhaling the smoke that Din lets out. “Happy now?”

Cobb hums, easily exhaling the smoke right into Din's face — he supposes that that's his own fault. “Actually, I think kissing you was better.”

Din can't help the smile that stretches across his face. 

“Well,” he says, leaning into Cobb’s space once more, “I think that can be arranged.”


End file.
